Bad Romance or Forever and Two Days
by incurableidealist
Summary: Assumed John/Sherlock. Non compliant with season 2. WIP.Irene Adler, Victor Trevor and dozens of other canon characters make an appearance. It follows a case, but one in which Sherlock has to choose between his work and John.
1. Chapter 1Rumor Has It

It had been a week. A week since they had clapped eyes on each other, or spoken or touched or interacted. It was officially the longest time they had gone without talking to each other intentionally. John had apparently holed up with Mike Stamford for a stipulated week or so. He was trying to phone his sister and get back in touch with her to help him find accommodation.

And here was Sherlock, sitting cross legged on the floor, bang in the middle of 221B, looking very tired and very flummoxed. His eyes kept scanning the room; at times he would fix his gaze on a blank spot on the wall and tilt his head, willing it to reveal the answers to him. The flat bore all the telltale signs of a violent domestic argument -askew furniture, paper strewn floor, broken bowls in the sink and an unmade bed. Names had been called, taunts had been thrown, and mobile phones had been brandished. Mrs. Hudson had worked herself up to a nervous wreck waiting outside the door of the flat and had fervently prayed she wouldn't have to call Lestrade. Sherlock could tell by her incessant pacing all the while.

He had no idea how he had ended up here. It was only three weeks back that John and he had finally (finally!) got together, as a couple. Although the social dictums and eyebrow raises were downright vexing and tiresome, Sherlock had given up trying to solve that puzzle. Instead he had set to work on the John Watson puzzle. He had never met a man so transparent in his life. He was exactly how he portrayed himself to be, gave himself no airs and carried a quiet confidence with him; it was as if the man could handle anything Sherlock threw at him. In spite of the fact that he was confounded by the simplest of details which grabbed at Sherlock's attention, in truth, Sherlock Holmes knew that John Watson was a far wiser man than he. But try getting him to say that, I dare you.

After they had settled into their routines,( well there was not much settling in to do ,they had been living together for a year now ) ,they just had to adjust to each other's bodily needs and sexual appetites. No problem there too. Sherlock wasn't an open book to read for anyone except John. John could tell exactly when Sherlock was aroused, when he was pleasantly distracted by John's arse or was staring at him when he made tea.

So till the last Sunday they had both been as happy as a consulting detective and his colleague can be. They bickered, John puttered around the house while Sherlock played some grand violin concerto for John, hovering near him all the while. They both had to admit, it was quite pleasant.

Then the fateful Monday came.

_A week back. Monday._

John had woken up early to get ready for work and make breakfast when Sherlock had asked him in many suggestive ways to stay in bed. But as fate would have it, Lustrate had rung up in the middle. Sherlock had sounded breathless on the phone and John had smirked his irresistible smile.

"Fine. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Sherlock hung up the phone and could tell from John's exasperated sigh that they could continue this later. They dressed and dashed out for a cab,

A woman's body had been found in the Battersea station. As the pair walked into the deserted premises, John could hear Irene's words "Well, look at us both."And the woman had been right. They had always been a couple, Sherlock and he.

Elegantly lifting the yellow cord that separated him and the crime scene, Sherlock swooped down to examine the body, coat billowing around him as he danced around it. The woman was in her early thirties and had her head bludgeoned so badly that she was barely recognisable anymore.

Somewhere, deep down in John's heart he knew something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

Sherlock had stripped the woman's upper body with no concern for her modesty now that she was dead. He froze at what he saw.

It was The Woman.

Sherlock was fairly certain that this was another ploy to get his attention. After having valiantly rescued her from the clutches of the Taliban, Sherlock had relinquished all and any contact with her. But between the times he had rescued her and returned to London, something had happened.

Something Sherlock would rather die than tell John about.

He stole a glance at John. He was wearing his best I-am-in-control expression but there was a doubt nagging at his mind.

He swooped out of the station without a word to Lestrade. He managed to double back and leave John stranded in the middle of a crime scene, again.

Where would she be?

The answer came to him before he finished asking the question. He hailed the first cab that crossed his way and fumbled in his pocket for a nicotine patch.

"221 B Baker Street, please."

It was the same aroma that assaulted his senses when he entered his, their, flat. Dior's Poison. Seldom had a perfume a more fitting name than when used by this woman.

She was gracefully perched on his desk, typing away at her (newly acquired) Blackberry, a tea tray laden out at the table.

"It's been a while, Mr. Holmes."

"Back in business, I presume, Miss Adler?"

"Oh, no. I have been a good girl. A few months after you," she looked him up and down, a scrutiny which made Sherlock uncomfortable," rescued me, I got married to a shipping magnate from America."

"Connubial bliss must suit you Miss Adler. I haven't been invited by Her Majesty to track down any compromising photographs."

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. I can afford some peace for now."

"And why exactly are you back? You wouldn't seek my assistance unless your own hands were tied."Sherlock smirked victoriously at the double entendre.

"If I recall correctly, you rather enjoyed it when my hands were tied the last time, Sherlock."

The use of his first name and the memory of the night spent together were unnerving. The woman knew how to throw him off his feet.

"The case, Miss Adler?" His patience was waning and he didn't want to make things more unsavoury by having to do this in John's presence. Not with her alluding to that night.

The Woman. That Fateful Night.

To be fair to himself, he had been drugged with some rather strong brand of hashish and had awoken the next morning with no memory of the previous night and a rather rude text alert noise. He had one text which read "That's twice now, Mr. Holmes. You couldn't say no to dinner with me could you?"

If there was anyone in the world who could make Sherlock Holmes look like a total idiot, it was Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.

"It simply is this. I want my husband dead."

"Surely there are less vicious ways of getting rid of him. Divorce perhaps?"

"Divorce would be too easy a way out for him. The man cheated on me."Her voice rose by a few octaves .

Her demeanour changed. She was no longer the cool cucumber she always was, no longer in control. Her movements became aggressive as she paced the floor of the living room.

"I caught him in bed with a woman half his age. Men don't cheat on me, I cheat on them. I take advantage of them and manipulate them."

"Played you at your own game, did he now? "

"I NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS !"

Sherlock remained unimpressed. Sure, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and when it was a hell of a woman as Irene herself, Satan himself would descend to Earth.

Irene Adler had played Sherlock. What he had then dismissed simply as love was in fact even baser than that-it had been arousal. And she had gotten him her own way, drugged in a small motel in Karachi. When people like Irene underwent pain or humiliation, they saw nought but their suffering. Adler was at her most vulnerable right now. Sherlock could get her for what she had done.

But as fate would have it, John entered the room at that point. He stopped dead in his tracks. As a soldier, John Watson had witnessed many oddities in the battlefield. But the curious case of the- woman- who- died- thrice –and- was- now- pacing- his- living- room had to take the cherry.

"You are alive." A statement, a confirmation, an expression of wonderment.

"I am, Dr. Watson. Are we finished here?"

It was uncanny but John had to admit she sounded a lot like Sherlock dismissing Mrs. Hudson in the way she said that. As his eyes roved the room, he found Sherlock seated on his chair wearing a smug smile.

"Ah, John. Great timing. Ms. Adler is here in demand for our services."He stressed the word _our_.

"What is it now? Who did you blackmail this time?"

"Is this amusing to you Dr. Watson?"She walked up to him and though they were of the same height, she managed to look down upon him while thoroughly invading his personal space.

"Your case, Irene?" John tilted his head to get a better view of Sherlock.

Something must have clicked in Irene's mind. He could practically hear the wheels of her great brain turning in motion. A second later, Irene Adler went from looking frazzled to looking the very picture of utter poise, like she had found some leverage.

"Sherlock, dearest, did you tell John what happened in Karachi?"

Sherlock's hand clutching the bow turned white at the knuckles. His equanimity was visibly disturbed just by the thought of what had happened. He sprung up, looking like a taut cable.

John meanwhile was hung in limbo as the great detective and the woman played mind games with each other.

"What happened in Karachi?"

"Oh, Dr. Watson, I am sure you don't know. Memories of a night like that one aren't supposed to be shared. They are to be cherished in the privacy of one's mind."

She dropped him a lascivious wink and proceeded to assault Sherlock's personal space. She lazily kissed his cheek, gave his behind a friendly pat and departed.

"Do let me know if I shall have your assistance and cooperation, Sherlock. I shall be looking forward to working with you." Her voice drifted up from the stairwell.

John looked askance. By what he could gather from the conversation, Sherlock had slept with Irene. Willingly.

"Is it true?" his voice was a low baritone that he used when he was his irritated best.

"What is?"

"IS IT TRUE?"

"John, I can explain."

John Watson had a few cherished memories in his life. One of them was meeting Sherlock Holmes. The other was witnessing him stand truly, utterly dumbstruck.

Sherlock's inability to explain notwithstanding, John pushed past him to leave. Sherlock caught his arm, pushed him against the kitchen wall and proceeded to kiss him.

Being Sherlock Holmes's partner teaches one a few things. Sherlock always always prefers kissing John to talking, simply because of the fact that he excels at it and is an advantageous position due to his height. He also knows how to excellently sidestep an issue and act nonchalant about it. John had let him get away with it a couple of times but this time was just the limit.

John roughly pushed Sherlock off him.

"I have been taking bullets for you since I met you. You promised me your fidelity Sherlock. May I bring to your notice how extremely upset you were every time I attempted to _date _someone and sabotaged each relationship I thought I wanted to have? And then you go off to some godforsaken place and sleep with Adler of all people?"

"It isn't like that John." Sherlock mumbled.

"LIKE HELL IT ISN'T. How would you feel if I went off right now and slept with Sarah? Or Jeanette?"

"Jeanette dumped you if I recall correctly."

"SHE DUMPED ME BECAUSE OF YOU. AND BECAUSE OF THAT ADLER WOMAN. "

His patience having now reached his limit, John grabbed the first thing that came to his hand (Sherlock's journal) and flung it across the room. Vintage copies of The Telegraph and Daily Mail danced around the room but Sherlock had the gall to stand there and stare.

Someday I will kill this man and get hung for it. He thought darkly.

All attempts at self control in vain, John made a graceful exit slamming his way out.

As he heard the front door slam, Sherlock let go of his self possession and slumped onto the couch.

Spoiled yet again.

He would really have to do something drastic this time to get John back.


	2. Chapter 2 The Date

_**Author's Note-**_

_**Since this is my first novella/fanfic/significant piece of writing and I am working without a beta, you may find that the story has some factual/grammatical/plot related inaccuracies. I have done my best to eliminate these, but if you find something you take issue with, please leave a comment or message here / on my tumblr page.**_

_**Any and all reviews and feedbacks are appreciated. It also makes me feel someone is actually reading this.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

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><p>Sherlock Holmes was not a man who waited around. John was utterly wrong in believing that he, Sherlock had willing copulated with Irene Adler. He was incensed by the fact of John even conceiving such an occurrence as possible, let alone probable. He had texted endlessly to John, sent him emails, <em>called <em>him. No answer.

_I am done waiting for the bastard._

He pulled out his mobile phone and sent one text, Reginald Musgrave.

Reginald had been his only friend at uni, someone who understood his interests and passions and delved into the esoteric himself. He did not reject Sherlock's daring deductions out right as works of the devil. He had been the only student whose company Sherlock did not mind. More than anything however, Sherlock was pleased to find that Reginald was a fencer par excellence, and actually made him break into a sweat at their first match. Relishing the challenge, Sherlock indulged himself every now and then in a bout or two, slipping out in the pretext of a case.

_Let the fencing ._

_The game is on. RM._

The match did little to clear his head of the John Debacle. Reginald was in fine form as ever and had nicked Sherlock twice in his moments of confusion. As the foils whistled through the air, Sherlock couldn't help thinking how easy it would be if John could fence. Any time that they drove each other up the wall, they could simply come here, have a bout or two, at least pretend to stab each other viciously and get done with it.

Bowing, Sherlock surrendered. Clearly, all the adrenaline was no good in keeping his distraction at bay.

Frustration did not serve Sherlock. It only added to the bullet pocks on the wall, it added to Mrs. Hudson's exasperation at her tenant, it only led Lestrade to ply him with endless fascinating cases like a salesman driving a bargain. _Here, Sherlock, woman found dead in a swimming pool but did not die of drowning; look at this Sherlock, family butler gone missing after being fired by the master._ Pathetic.

After two hours of desperately looking for something, anything to distract him, he did the one thing he swore he'd never do.

One text: Irene Adler.

_Gunshot or poisoning? SH_

The reply came in thirty seconds.

_The Connaught. Eight o' clock. Let's have dinner. IA_

Irene Adler had no intention whatsoever of making this easy for him.

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><p>Three hours later, Sherlock was being poured expensive French Bordeaux as he sat in his best dinner jacket at the Connaught. To his utter puzzlement, John arrived ten minutes later looking very dapper in a well cut suit, his hair brushed back and smelling of cologne. As he took a seat directly opposite to Sherlock's the word uncomfortable seemed like a euphemism. Sherlock put on his best smile and called for more wine. John just looked sullen. Accidentally, Sherlock's hand grazed John's arm as he reached for his claret. John coughed loudly and moved his arm away. Sherlock snorted into his wineglass and increased his attempts at making physical contact with John. He pressed his leg against John's at which John turned a very deep shade of red and glared.<p>

John was rescued by Irene making a grand sweeping entrance, looking resplendent as ever. Sherlock was fairly certain he heard the entire restaurant sigh as she made her way towards them and pecked them on the cheek. Count on her to turn heads.

"There are people who want to kill me." She began without preamble.

"And who is that?" John smirked as he replayed an earlier conversation in his head.

"Killers."

"Would help if you are a tiny bit more specific", Sherlock said, as he inclined his head towards John and smiled.

John Watson strove hard not to smile back, his features rearranging in a grimace.

Irene wore a tight lipped smile, indicating that she was at the end of her thread.

"Ms. Adler, I was under the impression that it was _you _who wanted your husband killed and not the other way round. I fail to comprehend why you would require my assistance at all."

"You are married?" John cocked his head.

"Godfrey Norton, shipping magnate, estimated worth 300 million dollars" Sherlock supplied.

"Lucky in love, aren't you?" Smirk.

"Gentlemen, let me present the facts of the case to you, _very clearly._" Her voice took over an icy edge.

"I married my husband a year ago, under the alias of Cassandra Blackwell, who has a past as a singer. This winter, on New Year's Eve, nonetheless, I caught him cheating on me with a younger woman. Hence, I want him dead. I had no idea that my husband was a sly bastard and had hired assassins to kill me, should the need arise" Her eyes swept over the pair." I find myself wishing him dead more fervently than ever while trying to stay alive and frankly, I want out." She ended blandly.

Sherlock eyed her suspiciously. Her face was an unreadable mask as ever, but she had a few tells. Her eyes kept darting all over the restaurant, her artfully made up face did not cloak her anticipation of things going awfully wrong. Yet she sat as if she was merely presenting a challenging puzzle to Sherlock, goading him to solve it.

"You do realize we do not offer bodyguard services, don't you?"

The mask tightened at John's question.

"Tell me, , why _are _you consulting me? You do not require the services of a consulting detective. I seek out criminals, not turn into one myself at the behest of a helpless woman with a troubled marriage." He stood up, leaving Irene to wipe a tear surreptitiously.

" needed a _friend_", his voice seethed with contempt; John's lip curled "didn't you?" And since all your pathetic acquaintances are useless altogether, you consulted me; not as a detective, as a friend", he repeated.

"I don't have _friends."_ Her voice mocked him, for even thinking such a ludicrous thought. Irene Adler, have friends?

Sherlock eyed the woman and frowned. He could see John looking like a lost deer caught in the headlights out of the corner of his eye.

Irene stood up gracefully, walked up to him and glared. "I do not want your services as of now, Mr. Holmes. But I daresay I will in the future." A finger grazed his cheek and she was gone.

Leaving the world's only consulting detective and his partner, ex-partner, to be accurate, to share a dinner at The Connaught in stony silence.

John had had his share of bad dates. Being a tolerant man, his definition of a bad date was way worse than most of us can imagine. But this date here, with Sherlock, chewing on his lobster risotto, beat all competition hands down. Sherlock seemed to have forgotten that John existed and was seated directly across him. His mental faculties were occupied with one thought only-What did Irene Adler require his services for? Any thought of being here with John, _his _John, who was not talking to him any longer, was brushed aside carelessly.

His knowledge of his dispensability had rankled John at the beginning of this, whatever it was. One call, one text, one article in the newspaper, one cryptic clue sent by mail, and all would be forgotten as Sherlock left him in limbo to look for new ventures to occupy his great brain with. But thinking it over, he realized, that he liked Sherlock for that very reason-that thrill, that familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, that excitement of impending danger, that spontaneity. If Sherlock had stayed in with John instead, locked up in their bedroom, it would have been pleasant for a while, but the action would still be missing. They were both adrenaline junkies, and nothing pleased John more than having a romp after a case. Then, they were like wild beasts going at each other, all concern for propriety gone with the wind.

He missed it. Missed Sherlock. Mike was a nice chap, a good mate, but he was nothing compared to Sherlock. He made toast for breakfast, kept only edible items in the freezer, did not hack into John's computer and certainly did not correct the television; he watched cricket when he got bored instead of decorating the wall with bullets (which would be the obvious thing to do) and sung Bryan Adams in the bath.

He also missed the intimacy. Terribly.

But nothing could make him forgive Sherlock for sleeping with the enemy. It wasn't even for a case or a cause. There had been plenty of times when _they _had had to pretend that they were together, for a case, gone to gay bars as a couple and investigated as inconspicuously as possible. It was on one such outing that things had taken a turn for the better.

_Four weeks before._

"Are you ready yet, John? Honestly, even the Queen takes less time!"

Sherlock's impatience was mounting. He couldn't believe that John Watson needed time to get into a tuxedo. But the result was worth the waiting. John came out looking extremely uncomfortable, tugging at his bowtie.

"Is this supposed to suffocate you or have I done it wrong?" He looked up and stopped dead in his tracks.

They gaped shamelessly at each other for the better part of a minute. Sherlock catalogued his physiological responses – racing heartbeat, an uneasy feeling in the stomach (is this what they called butterflies?)a mouth gone dry and a generally lack of awareness of anything but John. He saw John's pupils dilate and _felt _his own too.

_I believe a "shit" is in order, _he thought wryly.

John beat him to the punch.

"Shit." He gasped.

Some loud throat clearing and much drinking of water later, they were both seated in a cab on their way to attending a charity event to investigate a drug lord in connection to a vicious triple murder in Bethnal Green. Their back-story was this-they were both longtime partners who had come into money by investing in art and wanted to do their bit to the society. The drug lord was actually a wealthy diamond merchant who dabbled in the crime scene for profits. But the catch was that no one knew where he got his money from, which his people were and what he got up to. That was exactly what Sherlock had to find out-the missing link between the drug lord and the victims.

It had ended with them giving chase to a particularly slimy bastard who had the abiliy to climb walls with amazing speed and alacrity and who had led them directly into the lion's lair. After getting roughed up a bit, Sherlock managed to inform Lestrade and the Scotland Yard had stomped in.

That was an average night with Sherlock Holmes for you.

John had never had a longer, quieter taxi ride in his life. They had a blacked eye each and Sherlock was sporting a bruise on his lower jaw. On returning home, John was tending to Sherlock's wounds before his own when Sherlock had suddenly grabbed his face and kissed him deeply.

_Present day._

John still felt warmth blooming in his stomach at the thought of the first time. Sherlock's face was inscrutable as they headed for the door. John suddenly felt overwhelmed with his feelings for Sherlock and before he lost the moment, yanked Sherlock's lapel, pulled him down and gave him a quick kiss.

Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment before he stole a hand into John's jacket and made his intentions known.

John pulled back abruptly and left the premises without another word. For the first time, John had left Sherlock stranded, gaping open mouthed.

_Now, why on earth did I do that?_

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><p><em>Two days later. <em>

John awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone tone deaf singing Baby When You're Gone. (Mike possibly, could also be the neighbors-was there anyone here who didn't listen to that Adams chap?) He reluctantly got up and blearily looked at the telly where some blonde tart was reporting the death of an American businessman. The name hit John like a bullet-"Mr. Godfrey Norton was found dead in his mansion in Washington an hour ago" she recited solemnly.

He vaguely recalled Irene's words "I will in the future."

_What had she done now?_


	3. Chapter 3 Sturm und Drang

_**A/N**_

_**This chapter is slightly longer than the other two. I just indulged myself a bit.I repeat here, if you find anything inaccurate, please leave a comment/message here or on my tumblr.**_

_**Any and all reviews are always appreciated. To all of you who have written on this forum, I am sure you'll understand the need for appreciation. I am all alone, I don't have a beta and I am feeling every bit like an insecure author.**_

_**So, dear non existent reviewer, please leave me some token.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

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><p>Precisely two mornings after that disastrous dinner at Connaught, Sherlock found himself in a pitiable state. His<em>, their, <em>flat was an absolute tip; the femur he had stored in the freezer compartment was starting to smell, he could not remember the last time he had eaten solid food and there were at least three dozen nicotine patch wrappers strewn around, not to mention entire boxes of caffeine pills.

Sherlock was as close as possible to a nervous breakdown. John was the reason for all this. If the dumb git only heard him out. But he was stubbornly refusing all contact from Sherlock. Sherlock had thought of tipping Mycroft about the current state of affairs but then there would be no end to his intrusions, his large nose firmly lodged in Sherlock's business for the rest of eternity.

Just then, a text alert went off from under a pile of beekeeping journals.

_I hear there has been trouble in paradise. MH_

That was amazingly telepathic. Even for Mycroft. He raised his head and glared at the top of the bookshelf where he knew Mycroft had planted an eye. John had thought it would be funny to keep it there, in full view of their living room and their nighttime _activities._

_Piss off. SH._

_John is pining too you know. MH_

_You trifling good-for-nothing brother of mine. SH_

_That is not why this conversation is taking place. Switch your television on. MH  
><em>Sherlock groaned loudly. Mycroft had the uncanny ability to boss him around, even through text. Count on him to bother Sherlock at his lowest ebb.

The telly flickered on to show some grey haired man with a toothy grin and old world charm. The camera then cut to showing a large mansion and the newsreader's voice in the background-"Godfrey Norton was found dead in his Washington mansion not two hours ago. The cause of death is yet to be determined, as the body has been taken for post mortem. However, it has been brought to our attention that Norton's wife Cassandra Blackwell has gone missing and that close friends and family suspect her for the sudden death of this wealthy businessman."

_The dominatrix was right in seeking help. MH_

_How do you know she didn't kill him for herself? I wouldn't put anything past her. SH_

_I'll wait till you work that out for yourself, Sherlock. MH_

At that precise moment, Sherlock heard a dull thud in his room, the sound of something heavy landing there and his nostrils were assaulted by her perfume again. He also smelled blood, and something more primal, _fear._

_She needs my assistance._

He pulled out his phone and texted John.

_Come to Baker Street at once. Distressed client seeks help. SH  
><em>Before Sherlock could berate himself over the stupidity of what he had done, his phone pinged with a text.

_Am sure you will be able to relieve all distress, with your chivalrous ways.J_

"He's on his way. The good doctor can never resist a good case and I also believe he feels the need to _watch_ over you."

Sherlock found Irene leaning on the door, fresh out of the shower, wearing his bathrobe. He could read nothing on her person, save the fact that she hadn't slept for the past week, had no make up on and hence had left in a hurry.

"On a killing spree, are we, Miss Adler?"

"Don't want to deprive Dr. Watson of the juicy details of the case, Sherlock dear. Waiting for him to arrive."

Sherlock shrugged and pretended to busy himself with an azodye concoction that he had made two weeks ago. Irene wandered around the room and found his riding crop on the desk. She smiled grimly.

Sherlock couldn't resist a cheeky comment at her expense.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

Something flashed across her eyes; anger mixed with sadness and _nostalgia? _

_She is remembering the days when she ruled the world. At least the part of it that mattered._

She held the riding crop in her hands in a manner that suggested an imminent blow and moved menacingly towards him. Sherlock did not flinch.

Instead of striking him and making him feel physically what she felt mentally, Irene slowly caressed his face with the riding crop. She moved it down to his collarbone where it lingered. It was an open challenge. With one statement, she had wrecked havoc with Sherlock's life. John was his no more. The touch was a reminder of what further harm she could do to him if provoked.

The message was clear. _I might be in need of help, but I remain in control._

John Watson chose that exact moment to enter the living room. The sight that greeted his eyes only confirmed his worst fears.

Sherlock was standing tall wearing nothing but his pajama pants and Irene was in his bathrobe, caressing him with a riding crop. It was clear as day. Sherlock was his no more. John mentally kicked himself for ever having thought that Sherlock was in _love _with him. The bastard seemed to have no issues playing games with his adversary.

He cleared his throat loudly. Irene glanced at him and moved away while Sherlock stared at him in utter disbelief and turned as pale as his skin would allow.

John had no time for Sherlock wanted to sleep around with Irene; surely it was no concern of his. He would suggest baby names, do some legwork, _just for the adrenaline,_ and go back to being who he was before Sherlock had happened to him.

He took his usual chair, crossed his legs and waited.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock eyeballing him.

"So what case do we have on our hands now?"

"The case, gentlemen, is this- I am going to be wrongly accused of murdering my husband. I want you to clear my name and find out who actually did it."

Sherlock was getting distracted by John- this new John, who was in control, who was angry, who spoke in a hushed tone which implied that he was pissed, this John who looked like he didn't give a rat's fart of what Sherlock was up to.

"And how do we know you didn't kill him? Especially when you admitted to wanting him dead not two nights ago."

"Well, you will just have to take my word for that. I _didn't _kill him." She repeated.

John laid his hands on the armrests and sat back slowly.

"Says the woman who left us for the dead."

"She left me for the dead, if I recall correctly, John."

John's icy glare came to rest on Sherlock.

The feeling of being on the receiving end of John's anger was an unsettling one.

"Ms. Adler, could you please begin from the beginning, for the benefit of those of us who do not know", John spoke without shifting his gaze from Sherlock.

"I married Godfrey to escape from myself, the Irene Adler I was. The control, the blackmail, the manipulations were heady and intoxicating but I found myself tiring of running, of hiding. Stripped of my protection, I was a fugitive. I was the prey, hunted."

"After being rescued from the Taliban, I reinvented myself and set my sights on marrying Godfrey."

"Set your sights on him?"

"Dr. Watson, your romantic definitions of being in love did not serve you well, did they? I saw no point in hassling myself with finding someone and waiting to fall in love. The enterprise did not suit me at all. I hate the idea of not being in control and love entails just that."

She threw a significant glance at Sherlock and then looked at John.

_She is deadly._John thought.

"Moving on, yes I managed to get him to marry me, not that there was much to do anyway. I like to think I settled well into matrimony. The illusion faded from his eyes and I saw him chafing, wanting to escape, like I did."

"They have legal procedures for that you know."

"Dr. Watson, how dumb do you think I am? Our pre-nuptials ensured that I would get a, shall we say. tidy sum, in the event of a divorce. "

She paused here, to look out the window and heaved a sad sigh.

"So we continued playing our deadly game, stalking each other out. I believe he arranged for me to be caught on tape committing an act of infidelity. I successfully resisted all such attempts. But one day, he succumbed to his baser natures himself."

"You found him shagging someone else?"

Sherlock and Irene winced at the word.

"Barring the distasteful synonym, yes, I did."

"Why didn't you out him, then and there? It would have been much easier for you, not to mention financially profitable."

Sherlock chuckled.

This was something he knew of. He had asked himself the same question on the first day itself/ Irene was a dangerous viper-like woman who would stop at nothing to save her own skin. Why hadn't she done something about this mysterious paramour of Godfrey's?

And the answer had presented itself right then. Irene was saving her own skin. The person Godfrey had slept with was someone she wanted to protect, someone she wanted to save from public humiliation.

The only such person who would be close enough had to be a blood relative, and factoring in all possibilities, it had to be a female sibling.

_Her sister._

Irene shifted uncomfortably on the couch where she was now seated. She looked beseechingly at Sherlock, not wanting to say out loud what had tormented her for so long.

"It was her sister." Sherlock said very quietly.

John whirled his head round, not trusting himself to have heard correctly.

"Come again?"

"It was my sister, Dr. Watson. The one who I found Godfrey with."

John studied her face carefully. The mask was cracking; she looked sad and distant. Somehow, to John, it was like seeing a much younger Irene being told that Father Christmas does not exist. The heartbreak, the betrayal was etched on her face. She was losing control, letting her act slip.

"Irene." John whispered her first name.

She seemed not to hear him, looking far away into the distance. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye.

"Irene" Louder this time.

She seemed to gather her self possession, restoring herself to the new order of things, like she was mentally readjusting herself to the way things were.

"Yes, John?"

"I'm really sorry." Because John Watson was nothing if not compassionate and empathetic.

She laughed weakly. "Don't be. I had imagined the world to end some day. Just not like that. The entire thing was a huge mistake anyway."

"Where is she now?"

"Somewhere safe."

"And since?"

"Since then, things have only gone downhill. Godfrey was hell bent on killing me, fearing that one day I would snap and start blackmailing him with the knowledge I had. And if there was something dearer to him than life itself, it was his wealth. He could not see it squandered in my hands. And he also knew enough people in law enforcement to avoid a court case in the event of my death."

She fiddled with her thumbs, as a curtain of hair fell to obscure her face. She pushed it back and smiled sadly.

"We were in limbo, stalking each other out, waiting for the other to react. I did devise ways in which I could kill him but some lucky bastard did it before me."

* * *

><p>Sherlock had been a passive observer in the entire conversation, letting John take control of the proceedings. Hearing John's voice had made his gut roil with want. <em>Why can't you tell that I need you John? I want you here in my life, every second, every minute, all the time. What more proof do you want that I love you? I did not sleep with that Adler woman willingly. I even thought about you when I was with her,<em>

John had conducted it masterfully. Just the right amount of emotion, asking the right questions at the right time, timing his responses and making the subject _want_ to reveal their problem. Not many people on the planet had seen Irene Adler cry. Yet John had been tender with her, not scorning her for having emotions, empathizing, sympathizing.

Sherlock felt a stab of pride. _John. My John._

Once Irene departed to Sherlock's bedroom for a nap (she was heavily jetlagged), John had insisted on staying in Baker Street for reasons of safety. He had then proceeded to make them tea and settled himself on the couch.

Sherlock calculated the number of ways in which he could get John back, right here, right now.

He went for his safest option: the violin.

In the first few weeks itself, Sherlock knew that John was visibly moved by his playing. John was not a connoisseur of music, letting Sherlock play as he pleased, but he would sit right there on that couch, eyes shut as a small smile played on his lips. His face looked like the picture of satisfaction and contentment, as if there was nothing else in the world he would do than sit here and listen to Sherlock play. The violin was the easiest route of eliciting an emotional response form John.

_Swan Lake. His favorite._

The second Sherlock touched the bow to the strings; John's body went taut and loosened, one after the other. Sherlock could see him trying to _control_ his response to the music. Like he didn't want to enjoy it.

Sherlock amped it up, he started playing with more verve, making exaggerated sweeps of his bow.

John still looked in control, resolutely not surrendering to the power of Sherlock's music.

_Eureka._

Sherlock abruptly changed what he was playing, going from ecstatic to mournful in a heartbeat. He was now playing the piece he had composed for John. He had it committed to memory; he had written it on the days when there was nothing to do but wait for John to come home, get some takeout, talk to him, fuss over him,_ be_ with him,_ be _his.

He turned around to face John, looking pointedly at him. John held his gaze, solemn and quiet.

As Sherlock finished playing the piece, a single teardrop trickled out of the corner of John's eye.

They just stayed that way, looking quietly at each other,_ inspecting _each other, each silently willing the other to make the first move.

Sherlock did it. He flung aside his bow carelessly and knelt at the floor by John's couch.

John's hands touched Sherlock's face, the fingers roving over his features. Sherlock lifted a hand to wipe that single tear from John's cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Unable to feign control any more, he kissed John. With need. With urgency.

He was half expecting to be pushed away like the last time, but John surprised him endlessly. John kissed him back, frantic, filling it with his own heat and desire. The kiss also carried a nonverbal exchange with it, each party pleading, giving, taking, denying.

_Come back John, I hate it without you, you do too, I can tell._

_How can I, Sherlock? How do I know this won't happen again? She is here, and even the best of us fall for a damsel in distress._

_I won't John. Don't make me regret what I did any more. Please, I beg you._

_But, I…_

The sound of a Louboutin heel tapping impatiently at the floor reached their ears.

_Shit._

They both sat back, faces flushed magenta, hands quickly running through their hair to fix it in place, feeling teenagers who had been caught making out by their teacher.

"Much as I'd like to stay and watch, boys, I believe we have visitors."

As soon as she finished, two men in black suits entered the flat brandishing their guns menacingly.

"Ms. Adler", the man said, paying no attention whatsoever to Sherlock or John "I want you to come with me."

"Why?"

"You are being arrested under the charge of murdering Godfrey Norton."

"I am being extradited?"

"Not so much legally, as forcefully."

She looked at Sherlock, a look which said, _this is where I go with him quietly and you disprove all and any charges of murder; I see no reason in absconding further._

Sherlock nodded.


	4. Chapter 4 Wistful

_**A/N**_

_**Character/plot/grammatical inconsistencies alert!**_

_**Also, I think my title for the story is inappropriate. I had an altogether different version where Sherlock and John would make the other infinitely jealous by doing, ahem, things.**_

_**But this plot is making itself angstier by the minute**_

_**So.**_

_**I want you guys to suggest an alternate title for this story.**_

_**Also, yes I have borrowed heavily from the canon, with slight character changes of my own.**_

_**And I have to thank whoever has written A Study In Winning for putting in my head the idea of Trevor being a nice guy even though he is an ex of Sherlock. I didn't want to vilify him and turn him into the flamboyant- homosexual- who- corrupted- Sherlock- at- uni.**_

_**Lastly, keep the reviews rolling in.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

><p>After they took her, the sudden silence and emptiness that descended on them was tangible, palpable. John withdrew frigidly, suddenly remembering why he was not talking to Sherlock anymore. Mycroft saved the day.<p>

_Flight to Washington at seven. Car waiting. Get ready. MH_

By the looks of it, John had received the same text and was quietly running his thumb over his phone's screen. He was biting his lower lip, a standard John Watson thinking pose.

Sherlock was not equipped to handle such situations. He avoided eye contact with John, dancing around the flat getting his things .John remained where he was, stock still, thinking. Weighing the pros and cons of plunging into it. This was another thing he hated about Sherlock; it was like a whirlwind had swept over you, he consumed you and erased all other thought. Whatever Sherlock was grappling with at the moment, had to occupy John's mind too. It left him feeling helpless, and the control freak in him rebelled at it.

_Damn it._

The adrenaline junkie in him, the human being in him, won out. If he was going to save a woman from being unjustly accused of the death of her husband he could not let petty personal issues get in the way.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, in the process of tucking his shirt in.

"Yes, John?"

"Can you wait till I get my things? From over at Mike's?"

The ghost of a smile crossed his lips, his eyes lit up. He nodded grimly. "Yes, but hurry."

John gave a reassuring smile and went out the door.

Little did Sherlock know that he would not see John again for a while.

* * *

><p>John Watson was sure that a stop-hurting-my-brother speech from Mycroft awaited him when he found a black car waiting for him outside Mike's flat. Huffing with resignation, he climbed in to find, not Anthea or that other beautiful lady Irene had sent along, but a man in a dark suit.<p>

Mycroft had really outdone himself this time. The car took a winding route around London and then entered the suburbs. It stopped outside a ramshackle building that looked like it might have once been a warehouse. Suddenly, there were hands dragging him out of the car, more men in dark suits and a sickly sweet smell in the air.

_No Anthea. Man in dark suit. London suburbs._

This distinctly was _not_ Mycroft.

A basic survival instinct triggered in his reptile brain. Fight or flight.

But before he could react any further, he felt a dull thud as something heavy struck the back of his head. Before he slipped into oblivion, the last image that danced across his mind's eye was Sherlock's face.

* * *

><p>Something was amiss. It had to be. John had not yet come back from Mike's. Although he could present several different facts and theories explaining the reasons for the same, Sherlock's mind firmly lodged itself on the most obvious one-<em>he backed out.<em>

His lovelorn mind, he hated to admit it, had zeroed in on that possibility, on that probability alone. The dominant, practical part of his brain rebelled against any such reasoning-John Watson was not a man to back out, not when there was a case to be solved, not when there was help to given, not when there were people to be saved from the relentless onslaught of the cruelty of humanity, as would appeal to John's more romantic natures.

He heaved a lonely sigh. How on Earth did he navigate this world without a doctor with kind eyes and a penchant for weathering all storms? He wondered how Irene managed it.

He hated this too. This emotional fragility, this dependence, this _need, _this _want, _this helpless feeling of not being able to control, of not being able to manipulate simply because of not _wanting _ to manipulate. He felt like a shadow of his former glory, the glory of basking in John's attention, the glory of hearing John wax poetic about his abilities, the glory of just co-existing with John.

Picking up his bags, he found a dark car waiting for him at the end of Baker Street. He climbed in quietly, hoping to see Mycroft's secretary. Instead, he found the man himself.

"Sherlock, I know this will come as a mild shock to you, but they have taken John."

Sherlock started violently. The shock, _mild shock, _as Mycroft put it rendered him incoherent.

"What? Who? When? Where? Why? John? My John?"

Mycroft raised a lofty eyebrow at the last question. But something must have dissuaded him from directly addressing the possessive adjective. Instead, he circumvented it. "Yes, your John. The guilty party that killed Norton has taken him, demanding that you let the courts pronounce Irene guilty of murder in order to set John free."

Conundrum.

All his neurons were firing in frenzy. To say that the information overload engulfed him would be an understatement.

Seldom had the opportunity to _choose _been presented to Sherlock. He had distanced himself from emotions for this very reason. And now he found himself wringing his hands. The idiom almost amused him. Sherlock Holmes, wringing his hands? Surely no one had thought such a day would come. Forced to choose between John and his profession.

He turned to Mycroft-"And what has been done to recover John? Do we know where they took him? There must be some leads. And who is this guilty party you keep referring to?"

"We know where they have taken John. But they have informed us that if we even attempt to approach the place, they will blow the building up, with John inside it. The guilty party is the one responsible for Norton's death."

"His business associate?"

"Correctly surmised. We just have to prove that Godfrey Norton's business associate, Negretto Sylvius, has nothing to with his death, murder, if you so wish. I am operating under the delusion that we choose Dr. Watson's well being over Irene Adler's."

"No."And this quietly.

"I am sure I heard otherwise but could you please repeat yourself, dear brother?"

""I said no. We have to prove that Irene is innocent."

Mycroft was visibly disturbed by this. "Do you realised what you're doing, man?"

"John would have wanted it."

Mycroft's voice rose up two octaves.

"Sherlock, John is the greatest good that has ever happened to you; that will ever happen to you! Do you realise that? "

Sherlock lifted his head to see Mycroft in the eye. "I don't know what to do, Mycroft. For once in my life, I don't."

Mycroft was the only one who was allowed to see Sherlock like this-vulnerable, helpless and broken. All their childhood, Sherlock and Mycroft _had_ been close, despite all the false bravado and sibling rivalry they put up in front of John.

He had to take a decision, and fast. On the one hand was Irene, a force of nature in her own right, who was hours away from being imprisoned for a murder she didn't commit; on the other hand was John Watson, brave ex-soldier extraordinaire, not to mention the man who held the keys to Sherlock's heart. The choice could tip either of their lives into danger, and that they could not afford- John was indispensable and Irene was too, in her own way. But Mycroft was nothing if not resourceful; he was after all the brother of the mighty Sherlock Holmes.

"Victor."

The two syllables hung in the air, his tone ambivalent.

"Victor is the way out of this."

Sherlock finally lent him an ear. Mycroft could hear his brain jumping into action, hypothesising, calculating, theorising and concluding.

Concluding that it would be the sanest option of all.

Involving Victor Trevor.

Victor Trevor was the first human on the planet Sherlock had actually shown any kind of interest in-mental, physical and emotional. Trevor had been Sherlock's John Watson in his uni years, the understanding, patient and practical companion to a mercurial, tempestuous counterpart with an immense intellect. Victor was no weasel himself. He was perhaps as brilliant as Sherlock was but did less to show it in every conversation he had. He passed himself as any other ordinary man from London, but Mycroft was one of the few people privy to the fact that Victor's easygoing and unassuming mask hid a genius. And, genius always accepts genius unconditionally. Sherlock and Victor got along like a house on fire until they had drifted apart like flotsam. Sherlock could not be tethered, could not be held down. And Victor had tried just that. They had parted friends, awkward friends at that, but were both deeply wistful of the times they had together.

Victor Trevor now worked with the American law enforcement- a bit of a Sherlock Holmes in the States himself. They could circumvent Sylvius's demands- after all it was not Sherlock Holmes who was proving him guilty. It was the most obvious way Mycroft could think of preserving his brother's sanity.

"Yes. That would be it."

He pulled out his phone and sent one text.

_For of all sad words of tongue or pen. SH_

The reply came fast.

_The saddest are these: 'It might have been!' VT_

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile; all these years and they were still like teenage schoolboys, quoting Whittier, two emotionally dysfunctional men clutching onto wisps of the past tenderly, like holding a butterfly in their hands.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N**_

_**I swear on Benedict's cheekbones that this story is writing itself. I know it has only been two days since the last chapter but there you have it. I do have a few things to say-**_

_**Firstly, I got a few PM's regarding my tumblr page .Yes, it is called .com. Feel free to drop by and leave a comment or a question there too. I check it regularly and I am completely open to all and any suggestions/feedback.**_

_**Secondly, this story is turning out to be way, way different than I had originally planned. Although I do see the entire plot in my head, there may be a few glitches along the way. I am still nicking characters from the ACD canon. (A gold star for spotting all references)**_

_**Thirdly, I know I am making it like a pseudo-triangle with John, Sherlock and Victor. I couldn't help myself because I am a sucker for all these unrequited love, forever-forlorn characters.**_

_**Fourthly, the guy who plays Victor in my head canon looks a bit like Tom Hiddleston with a stubble (yes, like in that interview of his and BC's).Is yours different? If so, let me know.**_

_**And lastly, I hardly need add that there might be more character/plot inaccuracies than ever because I have to stage-manage the story in two different continents. I also note with deep regret and author insecurity that I don't have any suggestions for the story title .If you have liked my work, you'll be pleased to know that I am working on a second fanfic which is wildly different from this one.**_

_**I'll shut up now.**_

_**Enjoy!-Your beta-less fanfic author.**_

* * *

><p>Victor Trevor had never believed in coincidences. He didn't set much store by it even now, not when Sherlock Holmes had texted him hours after the wealthiest businessman since Onassis had been found dead. The text had been their parting sentences to each other; adult men who denied all accusations of having emotions had for once been caught in the act, expressing their sentiments through another's words.<p>

Victor, unlike Sherlock, had remained without a mate, or a companion. He lived in his large, empty, almost clinical, Washington condo with no one but his bull pup for company. No one who ever entered the flat could raise an eyebrow at him for having romantic liaisons with a dapper young graduate by the name of S. V. Holmes. Not unless they looked closely. A lone, unused deerstalker graced the mantelpiece and a copy of the only photograph he and Sherlock had together was stuck into the frame of his mirror. Promising young men without a care in the world, laughing into each other's eyes as the afternoon sun glinted behind them.

He still thought of those times as he nursed a glass of whisky by the fireside. It brought a smile to his lips, thinking about _he _had always made him laugh. Made him feel alive. And then let go of him completely, to lick his wounds in the dark, alone, with nothing but a hastily written note.

Even now, he smiled as his phone rang.

_This has got to be something to do with the case._

"Trevor speaking."

"Please hold for a second sir."He could hear the clicks on the other side of the line which meant he was being transferred to a secure connection.

"Hello? Victor?"

Sherlock's baritone sounded the same after all these years. It made him go a bit weak-kneed, but he managed to hold his own.

"Sherlock." He said the name almost reverently.

"Vic, I really, really need your help. Please. You know the case, the, umm, death of the shipping magnate, umm, Norton. I need you to solve the case for me. For me. This once. And fast."

Not many people on the planet had heard Sherlock sound anything less than cocksure of each word he uttered. But now, Victor was hearing the man stutter with disbelieving ears. Something was awfully wrong.

"Sherlock. Stop. Go slowly. And for heaven's sake, calm down."

He could hear Sherlock stifling a sob, take a deep breath and repeat himself, sounding his usual collected self. "They have taken, John, Victor. Negretto's men. They are blackmailing me; they want Negretto to escape unscathed in exchange for John."

"Why are you involved in any of this?"

"Irene requested my aid. Irene is his wife, by law at least."

"His wife? Cassandra Blackwell is his wife."

"That's her alias, Vic. Listen, by the time I finish explaining, either they would have convicted her or blown John up to pieces. So just go with me on this. I have to prove she's innocent. And get John back, alive and well. "

"Sherlock. You have to act rationally. You just have to accept that there is nothing you can do to help this Irene, and try your hardest possible to save John as of now."

Victor didn't know what made him say that. He knew that John Watson was the _one _for Sherlock. John had replaced Victor. In fact, he had done more than just replace him; John had made it blatantly obvious to everyone, including Victor, why Victor Trevor could never be to Sherlock what John Watson was. The irony of the situation was that he had done all this without knowing that a Victor Trevor existed at all.

But Victor was a man who played by the rules. Sherlock was not his anymore. Accepted. Sherlock now _belonged _to John in every sense of the word. Accepted. But Victor still loved Sherlock. He would do what was needed to keep him happy. If it entailed sacrificing any chance he had of a re-attempt, so be it. He would absolutely not use Sherlock's vulnerability to his advantage.

_If you really love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, cherish it forever. But if not, it was never meant to be yours._

"No. Vic. Absolutely not."

He sounded like a stubborn child refusing to give up a favorite toy. Although he never liked being called a hero, Sherlock _was_ a champion of the law of his generation. He was not one to submit to some political arm twisting.

What was one to do in situations such as these?

"I'll see what I can do."

"NO. Vic. You _will _do this for me. I want Irene to be cleared of all charges and I want John alive. They are not mutually exclusive and if anyone can make it happen, it is you."

_Well, that should do the trick, _Victor thought sardonically.

"Sherlock, give me some time."

"Five hours. Or I am coming there myself."

"Deal."

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared at his phone for a full minute before turning to Mycroft. "He says he'll do it."<p>

"We can only hope for the best", Mycroft replied, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It was all Sherlock could do to stop himself form leaning into the touch.

They sat there, in the awkward silence of the Diogenes Club, because Sherlock had requested he be someplace that did not remind him of John. As he cradled his Earl Grey, Sherlock's phone rang again.

"Yes, Victor?"

"Yeah. Listen. I have pulled up most of the data on this guy using a contact. It's been a while since we did this", he cursed himself soundly for using _we,_ "so I am going to need your help to get through it."

"Fine. What have you got?"

"He was found without a pulse by his butler this morning. Pronounced dead by his family physician. Cardiac arrest."

"What does the post mortem report say on cause of death?"

"Concurs with physician. Cardiac arrest, natural causes, the works."

There was silence on the line.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm. Did he have any history of diseases or deficiencies or anything?"

"It's mostly clean. He had a hairline fracture to his ankle as a young boy; malaria, which he picked up from a trip to India, but for the last ten years, he has had no significant diseases. I see what cause the family had to suspect foul play."

"It was Negretto. We just have to find a way to tie him in."

"I feel like I am blundering down a blind alley here. This is no evidence at all. And we need enough to convince a jury."

"Give me a moment."

* * *

><p>Norton's family had demanded that Irene be tried for murder. Knowing full well that Cassandra was only an alias of hers and that she had once led a colorfully dangerous life, also freelancing as a national security threat, Sylvius had arranged for her to be kept under house arrest. Irene Adler was notoriously known for making herself sparse when she was being hunted. Although she had been incarcerated once before, this time was even more harrowing than the last.<p>

She knew Sherlock would find a way out of this. She knew he was a chivalrous man and all one had to was dangle the bait. Her own contacts had proved her right- apparently, Sherlock was engaging someone he knew in DC.

She fervently prayed and hoped she wouldn't have to spend the rest of her life in prison for murdering this _particular _man. No thief likes to take credit for what he didn't do and then go to the gallows for it.

_Speak of the devil._

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I have virtually nothing to go on. I am not a lawyer, Ms. Adler. There is no information here on which I can build a cohesive theory."

"What is it that you do know?"

"He died from a cardiac arrest, post mortem report concurs. Even if he had been poisoned, we won't be able to find out because I have no access to the body."

"Sylvius bribed the forensics too?"

"You are not the only one who knows what people like ."

"Well?"

"Well what? Lady, I have just told you that there is nothing I can do to help you here!"

"Maybe I can help you."

"And how is that?"

"You tell me."

"Fine. Cardiac arrest can be caused by a wide variety of poisons or due to natural reasons. We will rule the second possibility out for obvious reasons. Now, we cannot prove that he was given a lethal injection until we know what substance it is in his bloodstream. And I can't find the damn substance because THERE IS NO WAY IN HELL I AM GOING TO BE LET NEAR THE BODY."

He screamed the last words in his frustration.

"Bingo. You have a confederate here in Washington, don't you?"

"Ye-es. But how do you know that?"

"I have my sources, Sherlock dear. And you are a man I keep an entire encyclopedia on." "Anyway", she continued, "ask that pretty boy to get his chemistry set along and come to the Medical Examiner's Office in two hours."

"I do not want him in any kind of trouble. I do not want him associated in any way with this case. Do I make myself clear, Ms. Adler?"

"Crystal, honey."

And she hung up.

Then she dialed a second number. As she put on her most flirtatious voice and cajoled the poor guy into submission, she made a mental note to thank Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N**_

_**You know what? Sod the author's note.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

><p>The Medical Examiner's Office was a grim place to be in. The cold, gray tiled walls and the sterile smell reminded Victor of his father's funeral, for no reason whatsoever. But being the practical sort, he put his head down and went in anyway, convincing himself that he was doing it for love. <em>Love? I meant Sherlock.<em>

_No, you didn't._

His brain hadn't shut up for a bit ever since Sherlock Holmes decided to resurrect himself from the dead and unceremoniously barge into Victor's life. After years of convincing himself that he was just _being, _that he would never find someone to _witness _his life, far from having melodramatic reunions with someone he had actually cared about, this unwarranted intrusion threw a spanner in the works. The longing aside, he could now recall how much he had liked the rush of adrenalins and endorphins in his veins. And boy had he missed it.

The body was laid out in the examining area; the man was fairly well preserved for his age and his body showed no obvious signs of external damage. This was going to be a tough nut to crack. He rang up Sherlock as discreetly as he could, without alerting the attendant.

"I'm here."

"She just blew the case wide open", Sherlock grumbled, as if someone had given him the answer to the crossword even before he had started solving it. This was trademark Sherlock Holmes; even if a man's life depended on it, his brain still craved the chase.

"So? What is it?"

"Hypokalemia."

"Wait. I have blood samples." Pause. Pause. "Testing it for potassium levels, it is going to come up any minute now."

"Oh, well. I guess I have nothing to do then", the complaint in his voice was evident. He didn't have to explain his brain's leaps of deductions to Victor; Victor was smart enough to keep up without having to hear lengthy pontifications from him. Victor was also _not_ in the habit of handing verbal bouquets at the drop of a hat. He missed the enchanted audience to his intelligence that John was, working with someone who was as intelligent put a bit of a damper on his ego.

Nevertheless, Sherlock imagined himself explaining it to a clueless, awestruck John-Irene had deduced that Godfrey had hypokalemia from the oral administrations of potassium that he took; potassium chloride given in small doses was a curative but in sufficient quantities was lethal. All someone had to do was tell Godfrey that his blood potassium levels were dangerously low and had to be treated intravenously at the earliest; Godfrey would literally be pleading them to make him alright-to _kill_ him.

He mentally applauded himself, and Victor, albeit grudgingly.

"Here we go. Positive. Murder by lethal injection. The only question is who?"

"It's obvious. Negretto arranged the whole thing. He stands to gain the most, the business passes on to him. The trusted well-meaning partner who didn't have a single skeleton in his closet unless you looked closely enough. He stage managed the whole operation, staying behind the scenes. There is no certainty that we will be able to tie the murder to him directly, he is not one to get his hands dirty. But it does ensure Ms. Adler's innocence."

Victor still didn't have much of a clue of what was going on here, he had given up trying to understand the proceedings. He didn't know who this mysterious Adler was, what power she held over Sherlock Holmes, where John was, _how_ John was. But he was happy just to go with the flow, pretending to be all pally with Sherlock for now; he was certain he would be forgotten with the dust when John returned.

"Is that all from me then?"

"Just wait there."

Victor found the attendant paying his behind undue amounts of attention. But before he could do anything about said backside, he found himself in the company of a tall burly man who left no doubt about his intentions to kill Victor. Apparently someone had stirred the hornet's nest and Negretto had sent his most trusted aid to clear things up.

He didn't need to be told twice. He gave the monster his best right hook, stabbed him at the shoulder with a scalpel and ran for it. Before he could get much further though, he was bodily picked up by the man and strangled from behind. He gasped for air as his legs kicked furiously and his brain sent an instruction to his legs-_kick him in the groin. _He just ended up flailing helplessly against the arms that were furiously locked around his neck, cutting his air supply. He watched the veins jut out and recalled their names with clarity-_cephalic, ante brachial and basilic._ His vision tunneled and he swam in and out of consciousness as he saw Sherlock's face floating around. _This must mean I am dead._

The arms that surrounded him sagged and he watched his assailant being struck on the head with a heavy metal object.

Then, complete darkness.

* * *

><p>Sherlock panicked. He didn't expect to walk into the ME'S office and witness Victor being strangled horribly. He had made quick work of the attacker but it disturbed his equanimity.<p>

_First John, now you._ _Negretto better expect some really bad days._

As he held a now-limp Victor Trevor in his arms, he smiled at the irony of the situation-holding one's past in one's hands and administering CPR to it can never be terribly alluring.

Victor woke up, saw Sherlock, turned red in the face, muttered a thank you and got up on his feet. He swayed dangerously and Sherlock had to steady him and sit him down.

"Are you alright?"

"I. Am. Fine."

"Someone must have tipped Negretto off."

"I bet it was the attendant; caught the bastard eyeing my rear and now I realize he was figuring out who I was."

"That vain, are you? But, do admit, you do have something of a bodacious tush."

"Pot, kettle, Mr. Caboosey."

Seriously, could it get _any_ more embarrassing?

Sherlock chuckled heartily.

"Come on, we have got work to do, people to rough up and lives to save."

"Umm, we?"

"Well, don't tell me you don't want to see this through. John would want someone to narrate, with great painstaking detail, each and every aspect of this case, blow it out of proportion and tell him how great I am with my deductions and it certainly isn't going to be me."

Victor winced at the way Sherlock said John. One syllable. But coming from Sherlock's mouth it sounded so different; so beautiful. As if the word carried a secret only he knew. That small smile that tugged at his mouth.

Right. Where was he?

Sherlock was busy texting, but in the midst of it he got a call. Victor couldn't hear the other side of the conversation.

"Yes, Ms. Adler? I was just texting you. I, _we_" he amended "solved it. I will place my bets on Norton's doctor more than anyone else. He might be the one linking Negretto with the murder but it will be hard to prove. So I suggest you take what you have and walk scot-free."

At this point, Sherlock abruptly ceased conversation and his eyes widened momentarily.

"You're welcome, Irene." A deep blush bloomed on his cheeks.

* * *

><p>They didn't know what to do after that. Irene had been informed, Mycroft had shown his true minority in the British government by somehow involving the FBI through some intelligent coercion and forcing them to look at the case the way Sherlock had. On further probing into Norton's physician's financial records, it was found that a large portion of his income apparently had no source. He lived too flashy a lifestyle for a doctor of his pay grade; even Godfrey Norton did not pay his employees that well. He had also bought a large cache of potassium chloride online using his license and had administered them to Norton that same morning. The FBI had been specifically asked to not investigate the mysterious well wisher who fed the doctor's wallet. Although Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that they would in the future, he was fairly certain that for now it was enough to keep Sylvius sated. This was what he wanted, didn't he? His name was nowhere near the investigation, someone had taken the rap for him and Irene's name had been cleared.<p>

As Sherlock awaited a call from Sylvius confirming John's return, he danced the two-step with an old mistress of his-discomfort. She crept all over him and had his insides burning. Being here with Victor meant that a very awkward silence engulfed them, and each pause in the conversation was pregnant with meaning. What did one say in situations such as these?

And on top of that, he had made the eternally unpardonable mistake of accompanying Victor to his apartment. As they sat there and tried desperately to make conversation without using the phrases "Do you remember" or "Back then" or "Since then" or "What now", Sherlock's eyes undressed the apartment. It was trademark Victor Trevor, from the Sudoku books and the Assamese tea he liked and the whisky he copiously consumed, the peculiar way in which he did his shoelaces right down to his neatnickness almost pervading the air like an infection. It didn't have the untidy disarray of Baker Street, it didn't have the fetid stench of decomposition and it certainly had not housed a human being apart from Victor.

But before he could analyze that last fact further, the phone rang.

"Sherlock Holmes"

The faint rasp he heard on the other side was enough to confirm his suspicions. Negretto Sylvius was calling with news about John. Undoubtedly, the conclusions of the police had reached his ears.

"You didn't keep up your end of the deal."

"But of course I did."

"Explain to me, Mr. Holmes, how you promise to manage to keep my name absent from the attentions of the press when the man being convicted is so inextricably linked to me."

Sherlock huffed. Surely it was plainly obvious that the doctor had no _proven_ links to Sylvius. Yes, he might have had an anonymous benefactor, but these days who doesn't?

"They are not probing into his finances any further, I can guarantee that."

"Your guarantees can go to hell for all I care, Mr. Holmes. The FBI doesn't like me anyway. How do you expect them to keep their hands off of me when they have every reason not to?"

"It is no fault of mine,_ sir_ that you have almost been found guilty of financial fraud and insider trading. It is not my job to account for all your slip-ups. I did what you asked me to do. Now it's your turn."

"Mr. Holmes, please do not operate under the delusion that I can be taken in that easily. You did not keep up your end of the deal. Period. Now suffer the consequences."

There were sounds of a scuffle in the background, someone shouting, someone who had that mellow tenor of John's voice; and then a shrill unbroken _beep_. He could have recognized that tone anywhere .It was the same tone he heard on his phone when an explosion had ripped apart one of Moriarty's unsuspecting victims.

Somewhere, a bomb had detonated.

_**Thanks for reading. Any and all reviews and feedbacks are always appreciated. If you have any plot points you'd like to discuss or would like to see elaborated upon, please leave a note. Thanks!**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N**_

_**Sweethearts,**_

_**I am so sorry for taking this long in uploading this chapter; I got slightly distracted and meandered off to other pastures before I realized that the grass was greener on my side of the fence.**_

_**All other fic ideas have been shelved for now in favor of writing this mammoth. My penance will consist of uploading chapters thrice a week. Yay for you guys.**_

_**And I think I got my alternate title for this story- it will henceforth be known as **_**Forever and Two Days.**

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

><p>Sherlock started in his chair. He just sat there, on edge, screaming John's name into the phone.<p>

"John? JOHN! NEGRETTO, YOU BASTARD! YOU COULD KILL ME RIGHT NOW AND I WOULDN'T CARE LESS. JOHN? JOHN!"

He could feel human touch at his wrist, he could see that Victor was holding his hand and calming him down, looking confused and terrified himself. He felt Victor ease out the phone from his hand and listen to the shrill sound on the other end. He saw him ring someone else on his contact list.

But none of it registered. It was like the world around him was going in slow motion and he was suspended in his abyss of grief.

_He killed John. My John. He's gone forever and I will never _ever _be the same again._

He felt an urgent tug at his elbow. Victor was gesturing towards the door. He was also saying something but Sherlock couldn't comprehend what he was saying; he tried lip reading Victor but all his mental faculties seemed to have collapsed.

Sensing that things weren't improving, Sherlock allowed himself to go as limp as a noodle, letting Victor take him wherever they ought to go.

Sherlock can't remember much of what happened next. He remembers Victor squeezing his hand with both of his own, as if pacifying a child, as they ride down in the elevator. He remembers Victor dragging him out onto the busy street. He remembers Victor holding his angular tear-streaked face in his hands and explaining something to him. Like mummy used to when he cried as a young boy. He vaguely recalls Victor grabbing his hand and leading him through an endless labyrinth of alleyways. He remembers being pursued by somebody. He remembers Victor's face that night-anguished, looking like someone had just smote him.

Most starkly of all, he remembers John yelling before the phone went dead.

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><p>Victor Trevor will swear to you that he has seen hell. He has seen young chivalrous men full of promises, youth and <em>life<em> being shot down, falling like ragdolls; he has seen rampaging armies wipe entire cities out in their mindless rage; he has seen disease kill everyone around him, slowly, as if relishing their decapitation; he has seen youth whose mind's have been captured by the devil, spinning out the darkest thoughts and the most evil of intents. All his experiences have led Victor to safely vouch that yes, he has indeed seen hell.

He had never experienced hell himself. And now, after all these years of avoiding it, it finally seemed to have caught up with him.

He could see the storm raging in Sherlock Holmes's eyes; he could see the tears pool at the rims, grief overwhelm the man; he could see Sherlock literally feel physically smaller because of his agony. Seeing the man now, crouched near a dumpster, shaking and whimpering like a child gasping for air after an excruciatingly vivid nightmare, Victor can positively say he has _felt _purgatory.

_You could kill me right now and I wouldn't care less._

Victor cringed at the statement; the way Sherlock had said it, convinced that there was no point in living a moment more without John. Victor wondered what it felt like to be on the receiving end of this kind of love. Of all the dominant emotions coursing through him at the moment, Victor tasted the sharp zing of jealousy and the copper tang of disappointment. Jealous due to the knowledge of the fact that Sherlockhad never loved him this way ; disappointed because he would never get to meet the man who had inspired such love.

_Perhaps in another lifetime._

He turned his thoughts to the tall, gorgeous consulting detective who carried himself like royalty, who had the sharpest one liner, the snarkiest last words and quickest deductions, now reduced to hacking sobs, making Victor feel helpless. Helpless and out of control. John was dead. Sherlock was just as good as.

He couldn't take this anymore. They were on the run, currently hiding from whatever species of goons Sylvius had chosen to unleash on them. All Victor could do that even remotely approached rational was following Mycroft's cool, curt instructions.

_Take Sherlock and get out of there. Run, for your very lives._

In spite of the grave nature of the warning, Mycroft had sounded suspiciously collected- like he had a trick hidden up his sleeve. Knowing Mycroft's penchant for keeping the cards close to his chest, Victor did what he could do-take Sherlock and run.

They had managed to elude two of the henchmen who had been hot at their heels and were momentarily enjoying their respite. Victor was crouched around the wall's edge, pressed against the red brick, blood pouring from a gash on his forehead and waiting. Holding the fort while Sherlock enjoyed a moment of privacy. He glanced over his shoulder to see the man sitting on the bare earth with his knees drawn up, and his arms wound around them like a cowering child. Victor desperately wanted to be finished with this chase so that he would be able to comfort and console Sherlock.

A dull thud and the sound of running feet caught Victor's attention.

"Sherlock, we have to go."

Sherlock suddenly stood up, pale and composed, the tear tracks clearly visible on his high cheekbones. The man huffed a deep breath. Acclimatizing. Reorienting.

A mere ten seconds later, they were both pounding the alleys and working their way through the gargantuan city. Two hefty men followed them with grim determination, wielding revolvers and resolving to kill before the sun rose.

_We can't hold them off indefinitely._

It is almost amusing how actively the human brain churns out solutions at the rate of a dozen a minute when under duress. No sooner had Victor questioned the futility of the exercise, than an answer presented itself to him.

_Irene Adler._

Just as they rounded up on a corner to catch a breath, Victor proposed his solution.

"Where does Irene live?"

He was grasping at straws. He knew he was. Going to Irene's was equivalent to walking into the lion's lair. But Victor was ready to risk it. Anything was better than running around like headless chickens with armed men in hot pursuit.

Sherlock just nodded and took off as if to say _follow me._

No sooner had they reached the outer bounds of Norton's property, two shots rang out. Ducking his head and diving to take shelter behind the nearest ornately carved bush, Victor let loose a string of profanities. He also heard a loud moan from Sherlock as the man scrambled for cover.

"VICTOR!"

"Sherlock?" Victor ran towards the detective, throwing caution to the wind. He couldn't care a whit lesser whether they shot him or not.

Running his hands all over the fallen detective, Victor found his hand come red when he touched Sherlock's shoulder.

_Thank God for small favors._

He removed his own scarf and held it at the wound to stem the bleeding.

"Hold it right there, Sherlock. I am going to get help."

Sherlock grunted in answer.

As Sherlock waited for help to arrive, all the while wishing he were dead, he couldn't help but think, _We'll have matching scars now, John and I._

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><p><em><strong>Thanks for reading. Please leave some reviews, comments, general flailings, unicorn poop, <strong>_**anything**_**, to let me know you are reading this, liking or disliking this. If there are any plot points you want me to discuss, inaccuracies you want corrected, kindly leave note. And about positive reviews, let's just say that if I were a jumper, your comments would be my John. We love each other **_**that much.**


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N**_

_**I am a fangirl of my word. Second chapter in a week after the not-so brief hiatus. You might have to take some leaps of faith here.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

Sherlock woke up to the bright glare of white lights on his face.

_This is somewhat like the movie John liked watching, the one where humans get probed by aliens._

_Are they harvesting my organs? Ooh, that might be _fun.

He felt the rustle of clothing and saw someone's face swim into view. The face didn't look anything extraterrestrial.

_Boring._

He then felt someone's breath ghost past his face. He recognized that breath. It was Victor's.

As Victor's face came into focus, Sherlock noticed the telltale bruises on his jaws and his forehead. But it was his eyes that screamed for attention. The hazelnut brown shade was decidedly different from John's bright blue. The eyes contained in them a heartrending expression of relief mingled with an unfathomable sadness, tinged with hope. _Those eyes, I shall never forget till the end of my days._ But before he could think one more thought, reality settled down on him and smothered him with its morbid fog.

_John is dead._

Sherlock strove hard to recall the events of last night. In a single unbroken stream of thought, there was John's voice, shouting, an interminable beep, dark alleyways that wound around each other, the Norton Manor, a bullet wound in his shoulder , matching scars and the bright light above him. But most importantly of all, there was John, dead. Blown to pieces.

The last fragment jolted him back to reality. He was acutely aware of the heart rate monitors screeching shrilly as he woke up in one swift movement, the pain in his shoulder heightened momentarily before subsiding into a dull throb in the background, and of Victor calling for help.

He couldn't do much more than sit up before he was attacked on by a horde of concerned looking doctors and Victor as they pushed checked his vitals, pushed injections into the crook of his arm and held him down.

Their accent was American.

_I am still in DC._

After the doctors (the word doctor made his stomach churn unpleasantly) had had their panic attack and left him, Sherlock looked Victor square in the eye.

"Why am I still here? Where is Mycroft? What happened about John?"

Victor stared at him blankly for a few seconds before snapping to. He gently moved towards Sherlock, clutched at the bed frame, and said, "Things may not be as you think they are."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Mycroft called an hour ago. He sounded, umm, confident about the situation."

"What situation?"

Victor exhaled.

"He is getting here in four hours or so. He said he would explain."

"And pray, what is it that Mycroft will attempt to explain when he does arrive?"

Victor was squirming under his gaze. He shuffled his feet and started inspecting the floor.

"Victor, what aren't you telling me?"

Victor raised his head and stared. The man was treading cautiously, afraid of upsetting Sherlock, who had just lost his partner not twelve hours ago.

"Sherlock, there have been some developments involving John's kidnapping which only Mycroft is privy to. He only told me to inform you that things might not be as you think they are."

Sherlock grit his teeth. Mycroft could be a pain in the hole at any given moment in time. That he had chosen _this_ moment to torture a vulnerable younger sibling by withholding information and act like James Bond came as a surprise.

Victor was staring at him like a microscopic specimen, gauging him, assessing his body language and trying to predetermine his reaction.

Sherlock gave him none at all. Suddenly, the urge to fight and the will to see the next day evaporated. He couldn't care less about what Mycroft had to say. All thought was obliterated save one.

_Why do I feel empty without him?_

Victor Trevor was in a fix of epic proportions. From what he had surmised from Mycroft's gently jubilant tone, the information being withheld was vital to Sherlock's well being. But Victor was fairly certain that the only thing that was replaying itself on a loop in Sherlock's head was John. What could be more important? Not unless….

Unless…

_Oh, Mycroft you bastard. How do you manage being so terrifically amazing all the time?_

Victor allowed himself a small smile. He had always thought Mycroft was a bit of a magician and freelance puppeteer, now he had evidence to support his theory.

_Mycroft had saved John._

_But how?_

Frankly, at this point, Victor couldn't care less. John was alive. Which meant Sherlock would go back to being Sherlock Holmes, insufferably brilliant consulting detective and partner of John Watson.

But he was not comfortable with sharing his conclusions with Sherlock. He didn't want to lead the man on, fragile as he was, only to find that he had been woefully wrong. They just had to wait for Mycroft's pronouncement.

The next four hours were going to be some of the longest hours of Victor's life.

The next time Sherlock woke up, the first thing he laid eyes upon was Mycroft. His brother looked unbearably smug and wore a barely contained expression of self satisfaction. Sherlock had an urge to wipe the smile of the man's face more than ever.

Then there was Victor who was sitting very close by Sherlock's bed. Their hands were excruciatingly close and Sherlock realized that he hadn't dreamt that bit about someone caressing his fingers. Victor, as if on cue, cleared his throat loudly and turned beet red.

Sherlock tilted his head back to examine the man. He looked tired, there were bags under his eyes and his shoulders sagged as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. In spite of all the apparent exhaustion, there was an air of suppressed excitement about him, hope that was reflected in his eyes and optimism in his features.

_What am I missing?_

Mycroft moved towards him imperially, sharp as ever in a well cut three piece suit. He held out an important looking file for Sherlock to examine. Sherlock couldn't help but note with grim satisfaction the amount of weight his brother seemed to have lost on his account.

"Mycroft, you know I give little consequence to formalities. What is in the folder?"

"I just thought I should let you know, dear brother of mine, that John Watson is not dead."

"Pardon me?"

"John is not dead."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose skyward. Was he hallucinating? He made a mental note to check the strength of the morphine the hospital had been medicating him with.

"Mycroft, I always knew you were an unfeeling insufferable bastard but this is a little too insensitive, even for you. Stop this; stop all your farcical attempts at trying to help me along. I am not a child anymore. LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Mycroft shifted his weight and ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and narrowed his eyes. The expression was patented Mycroft; Sherlock recognized it from his childhood.

_He is irritated._

He looked over his shoulder at Victor, asking for help it would seem.

Victor came to the rescue.

"Sherlock, he's not fooling around. It is true, John is not dead. In fact he was rescued shortly after you landed at Washington. He has been kept in a safe, impregnable outfit, in London itself."

Sherlock shook his head. They might have just as well have spoken in chaste Sanskrit for all he cared.

"Do you realize that the very reason I came to DC was because I anticipated that Sylvius would move John here as soon as possible? And now you are telling me John never made it to DC? Why was Sylvius playing all along then? And how was it even possible to rescue John? They made it very clear that one step closer and they would blow John up to smithereens."

Mycroft resumed his role as supreme-commander-of –all-the-goings-on-in Sherlock-Holmes'-life presently.

"Transport, Sherlock. You forget that Sylvius needs an airplane and an airfield to transport his victims around the globe. Conveniently for us, I was able to intervene with his flight clearance; although I should thank the chaps over from the British Secret Service for their assistance. John was rescued but I am afraid he is much the worse for wear."

"You still haven't explained why Sylvius played along."

Truth be told, Sherlock couldn't be arsed to care. He was weary of talking, of keeping up, of feeling alone. John was alive. There was nothing more in the world he was concerned about. Everything would be alright. John would make it so. And then they could go back to living in Baker Street and solving crimes for a living.

But the part of his brain which always remained a curious detective was eager to know. He knew that by asking so he was elevating Mycroft's already unbearable sense of achievement. He also knew he should probably be erecting monuments for what his brother had done for him, and this was one little way in which he could be thankful.

"Simple enough. He needed to maintain the status quo. If you knew that John was alive and he no longer retained his upper hand, you would certainly get the FBI to look into his involvements. Making you believe that John had been killed would ensure that didn't happen."

"Well, didn't he factor in the possibility of me tying him directly to Norton's murder after John's death?"

"Ah. But he did .Which was why you found yourself running from your pursuant the other night. John may have been dead to you, but you certainly weren't risking it the second time in case they took Victor."

"Hmm. Well, he certainly isn't as dim as he sounds, I'll give him that."

"And how did he know Sherlock would believe that John was still in his custody?" Victor asked.

The Holmes brothers delivered their trademark surely-it-must-be-obvious frown. Being on the receiving end of it only made Victor fidget like a schoolboy under his teacher's reproachful glare. Sherlock bothered to explain himself.

"He couldn't have known till the phone call. He obviously had the elaborate set up prepared for his double bluff."

"I see."

Sherlock looked at Victor. It was the kind of look that was exclusively reserved for John. That loving, thank-you-for-being-in-my-life look. The kind of look that reminded Victor of sunny days spent lazing around, of rainy days spent chasing petty thieves down, of foggy days spent sitting in lecture classes trying desperately not to look too chuffed about his boyfriend sitting next to him. His breath caught when Sherlock mouthed _Thank you _behind Mycroft's back.

All he could do was squeeze Sherlock's hand and hide his tears behind a smile.

"Well, then Sherlock, let me know when you are ready to leave."

"No, wait, the nurse said he couldn't move about too much for the next fortnight or so", Victor intervened.

Sherlock made an impatient noise and tut-tutted. He proceeded to slump back onto his pillows in the manner of a Regency heroine.

"Mycroft, get Victor and me to London within the next three days. May I speak to John in the meantime?"

"Sherlock, much as I understand your _pining_, John is currently recuperating from his own injuries."

"Injuries? Of what nature? Did they torture him?"

Mycroft smirked.

"Nothing they inflicted on him, I assure you. Apparently he was tied down with wire and struggled hard to free himself, cutting himself in the process."

"Stupid man", Sherlock muttered with affection.

"Three days, Sherlock and you'll be seeing him."

Mycroft bestowed Victor with a genuine smile, touched Sherlock on his shoulder and was gone.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

Victor just sat there, twiddling his thumbs, not knowing how to react or what to say.

_Why does Sherlock want me to come to London?_

_To meet John, perhaps?_

_Of "meeting" will be mighty awkward._

At the moment, he decided it would be best to leave Sherlock alone for a while and rose to leave. He had almost reached the door when he heard Sherlock call out.

"Victor. Stay. Please."

Victor obediently turned on his heel and hovered near Sherlock. He was taken by surprise when Sherlock took his hand and pressed it to his lips.

"Thank you. Thank you for all that you have done for me. I asked the world out of you and you gave me just that. I am forever beholden."

Victor's lower lip was trembling dangerously. He looked away, took a deep breath and forced himself to properly look at Sherlock's face for the first time. The pale, angular face which remained still much the same, the Cupid's bow lips and the verdigris eyes that remained a window to the man' soul. Time had however carved lines into his face; laughter lines and midnight blue bags under his eyes. The hair had grown longer and curlier, framing his face perfectly.

Sherlock waited for a response. He then looked, _really looked_ at Victor for the first time in ten years. The intelligent brown eyes that had always seemed to shimmer with laughter, the honey colored hair that had been swept back from his brow, the stubble at his chin , the crow's feet at the edges of his eyes, the gaunt look which had crept over him in the past decade, the high cheekbones and the large expanse of his forehead. Victor, still the same. Unchanging as the Rock of Gibraltar.

Sherlock gently squeezed the man's calloused hands.

Victor touched Sherlock's cheek, and before Sherlock could react further, bent down to kiss Sherlock firmly on the lips.

And with that, he was gone.

_**Thanks for reading. And might I be impish enough to remind you that leaving a review won't hurt. It'll just make my day brighter(I meant that John-jumper metaphor, btw). But I can only ask politely.**_

_**The next chapter will be the grand super-fluffy reunion (super angsty for Victor).Once again, dear reader, I turn to you for help. Do you think this fic should end with a wedding? I, myself, am sorely tempted but I thought I should know what the readership wanted. Let me know!**_


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